Dream A Little Dream Of Me
by everyoneisking
Summary: Dean Winchester wasn't going to let something like African Dream Root trip him up. But then Sam insisted on coming with him and now he had to deal with -oh god, is that Sam he has bent over the hood of the Impala? Stupid bloody mind. Slash.


**A/N: So this is my first Supernatural fic, even though I have recently read every Sam/Dean or Dean/Cas fic I can get my greedy hands on. I know there's a ton of swearing, but I feel like if the network allowed it, Dean would swear, like, every second word. **

**Also, I know it's an idea that's been used, but I needed something to sink my teeth into for my first try, and plus, I couldn't resist. Dean's mind is just too fun to play with.**

**Anyway, hope you enjoy, and maybe drop a review if you do, or if you have some constructive criticism? **

**Disclaimer: If I owned Supernatural, there would be no women and lots of Wincestiel threesomes. **

Dean Winchester had spent more than enough time around ridiculously named things to let a little something called African Dream Root faze him. Hell, it wasn't even that strange when he considered the other crazy things they'd fought.

Seriously, what the fuck was someone thinking when they decided a terrifying, cannibalistic monster a Rugaru? Dean had never been less scared in his life. Then again, Dean Winchester didn't really _do_ fear. Oh yeah. He was a bad-ass motherfucker and he planned on staying that way.

But when Sam had told him about this fucking African Dream Root, it had barely fazed him. Sure, it was a little trippy to think about tramping around in Bobby's mind, but he figured it'd be nothing weirder than a good acid trip. Although; he'd never really took to acid. He liked to be in control. All the time. Hard liquor would do for him.

Turns out he was right; Bobby's mind was mental and a bit disturbing and he was glad when they got the fuck out of there. He didn't need to see any more of Bobby's mind-scape to know the man was in pain. And Dean didn't do pain, not when it was someone he cared about.

Not that he'd ever admit it out loud. Chick flick moments were an absolute fucking no-go. Which is why he was royally fucking pissed off when it came to light that he'd have to take more of the dream root, disgusting as it was. Still, he wasn't going to let some snot nosed little kid get the jump on him. He wanted a fight, well then, Dean would fucking well give him one.

He should have known Sammy was too stubborn to just stay behind like Dean had asked. Nope, the kid always had to be wherever Dean was. He'd try to tell himself it annoyed him, but truthfully, he was kind of grateful for it.

Sure, Sam was nearly always the one demons got the jump on, and Dean was the one to pull it off him and save his life _(countless times, now)_, but every now and then, not often, mind you, Dean would make some stupid mistake, or the demon would be a little too quick, and Dean was always glad that Sam had taken it upon himself to follow Dean's every footstep.

Still, this was one situation where Dean really wished that Sam would just back the fuck off and let him handle it. Did the guy not understand that they would be _inside Dean's mind?_ That's just off limits to anyone but him. Hell, even _he_ didn't like venturing too far into it.

And now he was letting Sam into it? Well, he knew it wasn't really a matter of letting Sam do anything. He was a man now, even if he did resemble the bratty teenager Dean knew so well. He knew if he'd kicked up enough fuss, Sam would probably lay off and let him do it on his own, but that would most likely require some intense chick flick moments, and frankly, it was just easier to give in.

Plus, he could really do with a good night's sleep. Even if, you know, that sleep involved hunting down and killing a psychopath who wanted to murder people in their dreams. That was a pretty standard situation for a Winchester.

Dean wasn't really sure what to expect from his mind. It was kind of fucked up from what he could tell, being on the outside, but what else could you really expect from the way they grew up. Dean wouldn't have been surprised if all his mind consisted of was Sam, hunting and, well Sam. That's all he really had.

What he _didn't_ expect was to wake up in the backseat of the Impala, inexplicably comfortable, even though he logically knew the bench seat would be fucking hard and his head was at a weird-ass angle. More troubling, however, was the legs tangled up with his own. They were freakishly long and slender, and hell, they kind of looked familiar.

Oh, fuck. Dean opened his eyes further, and realised, yeah, he was lying wrapped up all cosy with his brother. Sam was fast asleep; his legs still wrapped around Dean's, the warmth they provided not altogether unpleasant. His head rested on Dean's chest, and as Dean regained feeling in his body, he realised his arm was wrapped protectively around Sammy's waist.

Well, what the fuck was this? Dean tried to untangle himself from his brother, royally freaked out, but every movement seemed to, somehow, tangle himself further and cause sleeping Sammy, who was apparently a very heavy sleeper in dream-world, to pull him closer.

Dean gave up his struggles and sat for a moment, racking his brains, trying to think of a way to get out of this. He tried not to dwell too hard on the fact that this feeling spreading through him wasn't completely… foreign. It felt a little like whenever he rescued Sam from something, which was often, because, really the boy got himself into a shit ton of trouble.

But this was so goddamn intimate, and why the fuck was Dean dreaming about it _anyway? _Pushing the thoughts aside, as he was so adept at, he tried to remember exactly what real Sam, not dream-Sam had said about this dream root business. He had expected them to "wake up" in the same place, and with a jolt, Dean realised Sam was probably wandering around by himself somewhere in Dean's mind.

Shit. That wasn't good. If Dean had stumbled into this freaky little scene, what the hell was Sam seeing?

Unable to remember anything Sam had told him about how this was supposed to go down (and berating himself a little for not listening more) he decided he had to get out of this damn car, because he was sure he was going to suffocate if he didn't, and somehow managed to jerk away from dream-Sam, without waking him up.

Yeah, this was screwy. Real Sam would never have slept so heavily. Both men had grown up light sleepers - Dean's knife under the pillow and Sammy watching the gun leaning against the wall had made sure of it.

Stumbling out of the car, Dean found himself in woods. Great. Just great. He fucking hated woods. Nothing good ever went down in the woods. There was nothing else as far as his eyes could see, so he found no other option but to trudge through the trees and mud in the hope of finding Sammy. Hopefully before he got an eyeful of Dean's seemingly disturbed brain.

Sam wasn't sure what to expect from the dream root, either. He'd studied up on it, but frankly, this was Dean's mind, and he had no idea what to expect from it.

To his surprise, he awoke alone. Dean was nowhere to be found, and Sam seemed to be in a motel room. Figures. Even in Dean's dreams, he couldn't imagine being anywhere but motels. Sam didn't really blame him, but he thought he could have dreamt up a nicer place. This motel was a dump.

Looking around at the peeling blue wallpaper which, for some reason, had every type of bird in existence plastered all over it, Sam felt a tug at the back of his mind. This place looked familiar. Swivelling around, he saw the two beds, occupied by two kids. Him and Dean, he realised with a start.

This was the first time Dad had ever left them alone. Dean had been, what, eight? Sam barely remembered it. Obviously Dean did though. Sam settled himself in the corner, smart enough to realise that if he just watched, maybe he'd pick up something important. Sure, they were supposed to be looking for Jeremy, but if the dream root had brought him here, something was going on.

The boys seemed to be asleep - it was strange watching himself as a child. He'd seen a few pictures, sure, but this was _him_. More bizarre, however, was little Dean. He was so … adorable. Sam knew that Dean would kill him if he ever knew Sam thought about his adorableness, but there was really no other word for it.

Little-Sam cried out in his sleep, and with a start, Sam realised that he was having a nightmare. He hasn't thought about those nightmares in years, but he remembered them as clear as day now.

Sam had always been a bit of a morbid kid; his dreams were always about losing Dean, especially on a hunt. Even when he didn't yet know about hunting. He guessed it was his psychic stuff lying dormant.

Sam remembered waking up terrified, something he was still accustomed to. He always craved Dean afterwards, just to know that he was still there.

It was another thing Sam still felt, even as a grown man. Sure, he'd never admit it, but hearing Dean's shallow breathing across the other side of the room calmed him more than Jess' embrace ever had.

Brushing aside those painful thoughts, Sam continued to watch the scene unfolding before him. He panicked a little when he realised little-Sam was waking up, and would surely freak out at the presence of a strange man in the corner, but relaxed when it became apparent that the kid couldn't see him.

Little-Sam's eyes were red, and he appeared to be crying softly. Sam wasn't surprised. He remembered those nightmares, and they were bad enough to put an adult into hysterics. Looking back on this, he was a pretty tough kid.

"Dean?" little-Sam whispered, looking over at little-Dean in the bed next to his. Sam jumped a little when he suddenly realised exactly where this was heading. How could he have possibly forgotten?

Then again, he was only four. Still, the comforted, warm feeling he got whenever Dean allowed him to crawl into bed with him was not something he ever wanted to forget again. Especially as it would probably never happen again.

"Dammit, focus, Sam, stop being such a girl," he berated himself.

"It's OK, Sammy. I'm here," replied little-Dean sleepily, lifting up his covers in invitation. Little-Sam jumped into bed with his brother happily, snuggling up against the bigger body and laying his head on little-Dean's shoulder. Little-Dean wrapped his arm around the smaller boy and settled back to sleep, resting his head on top of little-Sam's.

Sam knew that of course this had happened; it was a memory after all. But he was still shocked to see Dean so naturally affectionate.

Ignoring the sting in the bottom of his stomach, because if he dwelt on his feelings for Dean right now, they'd never get out of here, he slowly exited the motel room, a little reluctant to leave the kids behind, though he knew rationally that nothing happened to them.

Expecting to find more motel, Sam was shocked when he realised he was in a schoolyard; face to face with a scene he had hoped to never see again in his life. Damn Dean's stupid mind.

Dean felt like he had been walking for hours, though he was sure it had probably only been 15 minutes. Stupid dreamland, fucking with his head. Surely his own dreams weren't allowed to screw him around?

"Well, that's fucking stupid. Don't you remember all those screwy dreams about Sammy?" he thought to himself before he could stop himself. You know, he really had to get control of his mind. This not obeying him shit had to stop.

There was nothing but woods, nothing but goddamn trees. Dean mentally vowed to never go anywhere near another fucking woods when he got out of here. Then again, in his line of work, it was kind of inevitable.

Just as he was about to give up and freak the fuck out, Dean saw what looked like a flashing light in the distance. Throwing all caution to the wind, and apparently every bit of common sense he obtained from horror movies, he ran toward it.

That was the worst fucking decision of his life. Honestly, what kind of fucktard runs _toward_ the light? His kind, apparently.

Inexplicably, he found himself running straight of the woods, thank god, into a musty, dank room. The walls were red with rust, there were what appeared to be scratches on the walls, and a light bulb swung ominously from the ceiling. Apparently, even Dean's mind was a drama queen.

He took a cautious step into the room, sensing that the woods were no longer behind him, and really, the only way was forward. Keeping an eye out for the little Jeremy prick, because if he was gonna be anywhere, surely it'd be in this creepy hole, Dean walked further into the room, which somehow didn't seem to end.

Man, his brain was trippy. He walked further into the light, straining to see what lay just ahead of him. Finally, after pushing away the growing feeling of unease in his chest, he figured out what he was looking at.

There was a bed in the middle of the room, and it looked strangely cosy for a damp, disgusting dungeon looking hole. There was a man lying in the middle of the bed, his head flung back in obvious ecstasy, his eyes rolling. And, oh, fuck, Dean recognised those breathy moans. He heard them every morning when he relieved himself of his morning wood to thoughts of… OK, so not going there.

It was bad enough hearing himself but now his mind was seriously giving him a fucking show? Like he really needed to see this. He tried to tear his eyes away from the man straddling dream-him on the bed, but it was impossible.

Both men were stark naked, and Dean took a moment to marvel at just how hot his ass was, until he realised, wait a minute, he was dreaming about fucking a dude. And oh, fuck, not just any dude.

Sammy was perched on top of him, pinning him down, trailing kisses along his neck, his chest, his-

"Whoa, OK, Dean. Time to look the fuck away," Dean told himself, finally managing to avert his eyes, even though his dick was currently very pissed off at him. It twitched angrily, almost as if it was willing him to turn back and get himself off at the very sight of Sammy atop him, his pink tongue darting out and swirling around his-

"Oh fucking hell. Snap out of it, man" Dean told himself angrily, trying to shake the images out of his mind. No such luck, apparently. He turned further to head out the door again, to find anything but this fucked up scene that was doing just a little too much for him, and was suddenly confronted with a fist right up in his face.

Pain blinded his senses, and he stumbled backwards, before being wrenched back by strong arms, and flipped around to face the bloody porn show in front of him again. The arms - Dean could only assume they belonged to Jeremy - held him tight around his neck, the cold edge of a knife pressing hard.

"Uh, uh, uh. Not so fast. I know you like what you see, Deano," hissed a voice in his hear, and fuck. Dean tensed up, making the knife cut further into his neck. Oh, hell no, he knew that voice. He recognised the cruel amusement in it, and he suddenly hated it more than anything.

"Come on man, let me the fuck go and we'll handle this like real men," he retorted, knowing exactly how to press his captors' buttons. The stranglehold didn't release him like he had expected, instead tightening, so the knife broke his skin. Dean felt the sharp sting and his blood bubbled to the surface, dripping down his neck and into his shirt.

"Fuck," Dean thought blankly, as if it was the only word in his vocabulary, which it might as well have been. This was not going the way he thought it would. After a painful moment, however, his captor released him, and Dean stumbled again, berating himself mentally for his lack of coordination.

He looked up to face the prick who'd caught him by surprise, and yep. He was right. For once, Dean hated his awesome abilities of being right all the time.

Dean was looking at, well, himself. It was like looking into a mirror, except Dean knew this was real _(actually, no, because it was a dream, but he knew what he meant)_ and the Dream-Dean had a lazy smile on his face as he leant casually against the wall, looking over at the other Dean who was currently moaning like a fucking porn star.

Jesus, he never thought he'd say it, but there was such a thing as just too much Dean Winchester.

"What the fuck do you want?" he rasped out, trying desperately to keep his eyes off the scene in the corner. He couldn't do much about his ears. Dream-Dean chuckled darkly, and suddenly Dean wanted nothing more than to smack the smug look off his face.

He wondered whether Sam ever felt this way about him. Right now, he was willing to bet, yeah, he did. Dean was a smarmy motherfucker, even as some evil perv in his dreams. 

"Ah, Deano. You're so hostile. What makes you think I want anything?" Dream-Dean replied, still smirking lightly. Dean clenched his teeth and forced himself not to throw a punch.

"Well, bro, you're me. And we both know I always want something," he replied through gritted teeth, determined to stay calm and get himself the fuck out of here so he could just hunt down the little prick he was supposed to be hunting and get the fuck out his brain. He'd more than enough self-reflection for one night. Hell, for his whole life.

"Oh, you got me there. Still, it's not like I want anything particularly bad from you. I just want you to wake up and realise me. Do you know how _hard _it is to be trapped inside your head, when there's so many opportunities, so much Sammy, and you don't do _anything?"_ Dream-Dean answered, suddenly disturbingly intense.

Dean prided himself on his quick and hilarious wit when in the face of danger, but somehow, this time he was speechless. He knew there was no point in arguing with this thing.

He knew somewhere inside of him that this _thing_ was a part of him, albeit, a twisted, creepy part he had no desire to explore. Yep, no desire at all. Desire certainly wasn't what was curling in his stomach and tightening his pants and oh fuck he really needed to distract himself right now.

The Dream-Dean seemed to pick up on his speechlessness and took the opportunity to continue his monologue.

"You know, Dean, I was beginning to think you'd never figure it out. Hell, I've been in your mind since you were sixteen, and no matter how much I pounded on that pretty head of yours, you still pushed me away. Can't you see this is what you really want?" it implored, sounding strangely sincere for an evil motherfucker.

Dean watched his dream-self closely; searching for the malicious look in his eyes that Dean had come to know as the sign of a demon, or something evil at least, but he found only the slightly desperate look in its eyes that he recognised only too well.

He couldn't stand looking at the dream-him any longer, and finally let his eyes flick back over to the bed, where Sammy was suddenly laying in the position Dean had been, only he suited it far better, his back arched, his body slick with sweat, his fists curled in the sheets.

Dean knew the look on his own face far too well, even though he'd never actually seen it himself. He (or dream-him, whatever) was about to come, and he'd be fucked if he was just gonna stand here and watch it. That would just be too fucked up, even for him.

Turning back to confront the other Dream-Dean so he could get the fuck out of here before he did something he'd regret, Dean found empty air. Rushing out the door, back into what he thought would be that goddamn woods, he heard a faint hissing in the air as he exited the room.

"Just imagine what the real Sammy is seeing here. You'd better find him, and fast," the voice hissed, and though Dean didn't recognise it, it spoke the truth. The sooner he found Sam, the sooner they could get the fuck out of here, dead Jeremy or no.

Sam's stomach plummeted, his pulse raced. He vaguely recognised the feeling as fear, but he must have been more like Dean than he wanted to admit, because he sure didn't like knowing he could still feel it as intensely as he was right now.

Randall Watson, a kid far worse than Dirk McGregor had ever been. Sam would have taken a million Dirk McGregors rather than ever have to face Randall Watson.

Sam liked to think that he was a pretty brave guy - hell, he was a hunter. Being brave was kind of a pre-requisite. But remembering the terror Randall Watson instilled in him amplified the terror he felt looking at him right now.

He wondered whether this was another invisibility deal, and sincerely hoped so. Logic went out the window as he struggled to take in what was happening before him.

He knew, somewhere in his mind, that he was a man now, and as Dean so often liked to point out, a pretty giant one, and he could easily take down puny little Randall Watson with a flick of his hand.

That didn't seem to matter as Sam was currently rooted to the spot and was pretty sure he couldn't move even if he wanted to.

"What you gonna do, Winchester? Gonna hit me?" Randall taunted, his voice as gravelly as Sam remembered. Randall had shoved Dream-Sam up against the schoolyard wall, and Sam could almost feel the hot, scratchy brick pressing up against his back all over again.

Dream-Sam glared back, his eyes stormy with rage, but he didn't say anything. Sam remembered all too well why he didn't throw the kid off him like he knew he probably could if he really tried.

At 14, he was beginning to grow into his giant stature, and years of hunting training with Dad and Dean had made him more than strong enough to take on a few bullies.

This, however, was something different. This was, arguably, the most traumatic experience Sam had ever had, and barring the whole Stanford debacle, it was probably still way up there on the list.

Randall had been a big kid, on the wrestling team, and he was generally regarded as the baddest ass in school. No one crossed him.

"Come on, Winchester, throw a punch. You know you want to," coaxed Randall, leaning further into dream-Sam's face, and Sam could smell his breath, all rotten fish and cigarettes. Sam wasn't sure whether it was the actual dream or just his memories.

Dream-Sam remained still, held against the wall by Randall. His arms shook, as if it was an immense struggle to keep them down, but it was a testimony to the seriousness of the situation that Sam was able to restrain himself.

He'd tried so hard not to dwell on that summer, especially because it had changed so much between him and Dean, and he'd been at least somewhat successful, not thinking about it for a few years, and now Dean's stupid mind had to drudge it all up again? Why was he even dreaming about it?

It's not like he knew the whole story. He'd never let Dean know it all. It was bad enough that it was burned into _his_ mind. Dean had asked him back then why Randall had such a hard-on for him, but Sam never gave him the real reason.

After all, if he knew the real reason, he probably would have agreed with the prick Randall and left him for the wolves.

Sam remembered the day the teacher had announced the field trip, some overnight thing to see a museum, a few towns over. Sam, being Sam, had been geekily delighted.

As much as Dean made fun of him for it, he'd never pass up a chance to see a museum. He also relished the time away from Dean. It had been getting harder and harder to sleep in the same room as him and not jump his bones.

The trip had been fine, fun, even. It was the overnight business that was the killer. Sam never really took well to the social part of school; he was more adept at guns than friends, something he deeply resented.

But it explained why he'd been left partnerless when it came to picking room-buddies. The only other kid without a partner had been, yeah, you guessed it, Randall.

It would all have been fine if Sam had just been normal, he told himself for years after. But in the middle of the night, Sam had a particularly vivid dream, one involving him being very willingly pinned against a motel bed by Dean.

Evidently, Sam had never been one for self-control, because if he had, maybe he would have, even subconsciously, been able to hold in his moans.

"D-Deeeean," he had moaned in his sleep, body writhing. Apparently Randall had been a light sleeper, because sure enough, he woke up, heard Sam's little soon-to-be-wet dream and had freaked the hell out.

Everyone in the town they were staying in knew Dean. He was the new resident cool guy. Just eighteen, smoking hot, with a devil-may-care attitude.

He was the hot gossip. And as such, everyone knew that weird, geeky Sam Winchester was the younger brother of BAMF Dean Winchester.

So it wasn't surprising when Randall pegged that he Sam was dreaming about fucking his brother.

He'd held it over him for weeks after the trip, making Sam his new punching bag, making him swear not to tell anyone or he'd let everyone know he wanted to screw his brother.

Sam was no idiot; the teachers might hear, and decide to bring in the authorities. Not to mention Dean would find out. So he'd kept his mouth shut. Which had culminated in the scene he was now viewing for the second time around.

"Back off, Watson," Dream-Sam growled through gritted teeth. Randall just laughed, and pressed Sam even harder into the wall.

"Why should I? There ain't nothing you can do to me, fag. Or do you _want_ your brother to find out you want to fuck him?" Randall hissed into Sam's ear, his leg pushing its way in between Sam's. Dream-Sam blushed and hung his head at the same time as real Sam sucked in a breath of air in shock.

This was _Dean's _mind. He couldn't dream up anything he didn't already know. Had Dean somehow heard what Randall had said? He must have.

Sam suddenly felt dizzy, and he couldn't stick around to watch Dream-Dean come and inevitably save his ass like he knew he would. That was why it had been in Dean's mind after all. He had to be there somehow.

Sam stumbled away from the scene, further into the darkness of Dean's mind, unable to catch his breath. Dean _knew. _He'd known for all these years and never said anything.

He must have spent so many years hating him, wishing he was normal, resenting that Dad had drilled into him so deeply that he must protect him.

Fuck this Jeremy kid, he had to get out of here. Who knew what else he'd see, what else could hurt him. He really didn't want any further insight into Dean's mind at this moment, even though it was all he wished for when he was a teenager _(and, OK, well into his adult years). _

Stumbling away, Sam didn't even see what he was stumbling into until he saw it for himself.

"Oh, Christ, you have to be kidding me," he sighed, heart racing. Bloody Dean.

Dean had, by far, had enough of his goddamn brain. He had half a mind to take a gun and just blow it out when he finally got out of here, he was so pissed off.

Of course, then he'd be ridding the world of the greatness that is Dean Winchester, and well, he was a giver, not a taker. He couldn't do that to the world.

Ignoring the scoff in his mind that sounded uncannily like Sam, he soldiered on, not exactly sure what he was supposed to be looking for anymore.

There was this goddamn fog everywhere, though to be honest, Dean liked it a hell of a lot more than he had liked facing off with porn-star-Dean and seemingly-in-love-with-Sammy-Dean. Both had freaked him out, and he'd be quite glad to never see them again.

God, was it enough to ask that he just find his brother and escape his own goddamn mind? He didn't even want to think about what Sammy has discovered.

He'd kept his little fantasies in his mind; that was enough for any normal man, but no, Sammy insisted on tramping around his mind. Stubborn brat.

A curiously familiar soft whine penetrated his thoughts, and against his better judgement, he rushed to it. He'd know Sammy's pain noises anywhere, and by god, nothing had ever stopped him from getting there to help before.

Again; Dean was not so adept at making good decisions. He raced through the fog toward the cries, which were increasingly loud and sliced through Dean painfully with each one.

Considering how long he'd been hunting, you would have thought that Dean would know the scent of a trap by now, but he'd never exactly been the brains of the operation.

The fog cleared suddenly, and instead of seeing his Sammy bent over in pain like he'd expected, he saw a dream-Sammy bent over, but not exactly in pain.

Great. His stupid brain was showing him yet another twisted little fantasy of his. He groaned, and though he'd intended it to be exasperated, it came out disturbingly sexual.

He could really do without the image of him bending Sammy over and whispering sweet nothings in his air right now _(and honestly, his brain could not have gotten any mushier and he could not be any more ashamed. Sex was all well and good, but Dean did not do romance)._

Abruptly, however, the scene in front of him dulled, the slapping together of flesh quieted, and Dean's attention was focused entirely on the man standing in the corner, watching the scene as intently as he had been.

"Stupid Dean and his stupid horny brain. Like I need to see his sex dreams," the man was muttering, and Dean was certain that it was Sammy; the _real _Sammy, his Sammy, because only his Sam could make everything else dull like this.

He didn't seem to be overly horrified either, which probably meant he didn't realise who exactly Dean was fucking right in front of them. He was sure Sam couldn't see him, or he'd be either beating the shit out of him or dragging them out of there.

Sam was right here in front of him, the real one, the one he'd gone crazy looking for, and he could get them out right now, but strangely, he wouldn't move. Or maybe he couldn't.

There was something keeping him stuck on this one spot, watching Sam, waiting for him to realise exactly what he was looking at, and something in Dean was waiting for the disgust, waiting eagerly.

It didn't take long. Sam seemed oddly captivated with the scene, watching Dean with an intensity rivalled only by Dean's own, and he moved forward, as if to get a closer look.

Dean slank further into the shadows, instinctively, waiting for the scene to play out. His stomach tightened, and his pulse raced, and still he couldn't move.

Sam was close now, probably close enough to reach out and touch Dream-Dean, which looked to be exactly what he was going to do, until he managed to tear his eyes away from the Dream-Dean and to the man in front of him, who was currently panting and begging with every breath he had left in him.

Sam's eyes widened, and his mouth dropped slightly. It would have been almost comical if Dean hadn't felt so sick. This was it; this was the moment he would be finally found out, and Sammy would hate him.

The Dream-Dean was still whispering into Dream-Sam's ear, all the while thrusting violently and stroking Dream-Sam's weeping dick. Dean took a moment to marvel at his pretty fantastic multi-tasking.

"God, Sammy, I love you so much," Dream-Dean was moaning, over and over until the words barely meant anything, and Sammy was chanting his name, and this was all too fucking much for him. He was going to explode.

Sam's face was still shocked; he seemed unable to move, and in the moment before his shock turned to inevitable disgust, Dean managed to take control of his body, grab Sam's arm and jerk him the fuck away from the two men fucking before them.

"Dean," he gasped, and Dean was stunned to see what were unmistakably lust-blown eyes. God, he'd dreamt about that look in Sammy's eyes. But this wasn't the time.

"Come on, Sam, we've gotta get the fuck out of here," he said, and hoped that Sam would offer up some explanation of exactly how to do that, but Sam was still staring at him with that look, and Dean was willing to bet he wasn't geeking it up anytime soon.

"Good God. And I thought I was fucked up," came a shocked voice from behind them, and Dean whirled around, prepared to see yet another fucked up manifestation of himself.

Thankfully, or maybe not so thankfully, it was Jeremy. The one smarmy bastard they'd actually come here to kill. In all the bloody chaos, Dean had almost forgotten him.

Without hesitating, he pulled the gun from his waistband and fired two shots directly into Jeremy's head, too pissed off and fucked up to risk having to deal with a horror movie villain that didn't fucking die. The minute the shots hit the kid, Dean jerked out of the dream, waking up suddenly in the motel bed.

He gasped deeply, craving the air of the real world, reassuring himself that he'd finally got the fuck out of there. Sammy lay next to him, still unconscious. Dean panicked for a moment, but sighed in relief when Sam too awoke, sucking in the air as ravenously as Dean had.

Dean hoped, illogically, for a second that Sam wouldn't remember any of it, that he'd just be confused, and take on that little bemused puppy dog face he got whenever he couldn't figure something out, and he wouldn't _know, _and everything would be fine.

That was stupid. Of course Sam remembered. He remembered everything. He remembered stumbling into the scene, thinking that he'd finally reached that shallow, horny part of Dean's brain that just thought about fucking.

Feeling slightly guilty when he couldn't tear his eyes away from the scene, even though he knew it would hurt to see Dean fucking someone else, no matter how many times he'd seen it before.

The shock when he'd seen it was him bent over and taking Dean, all of Dean. The lust that curled in his stomach and his balls when he heard the moans from both of them, dream-figures or not.

The love that spread that through his whole body when he'd heard dream-Dean's whispered proclamations of love, even though he knew Dean would tease him about it if he really were there.

Most of all, the damning realisation when knew, he just _knew_ that Dean had watched him watch the whole thing. Sam really should have calmed himself with the thought that Dean had been the one dreaming about it anyway, but all he could think was "Oh, God, Dean knows, he knows, he'll hate me, we'll never be the same again, he'll leave me".

"Dean," he said, his voice low and pleading.

"Don't. Just don't," Dean replied, and calmly stood up and left Sam alone in the motel room. His entire body was shaking; he couldn't fucking do this. He was not going to sit in that goddamn motel room and have a heart to heart with his little brother explaining how much he wanted to fuck him.

He remembered the raw lust in Sam's eyes back in dreamland; but that couldn't have been real. Either Dean had been imagining it or Sam just really hadn't gotten any in a _long _time. Which was fine with Dean, really. He didn't want someone else fucking his Sammy anyway.

"Christ, stop it. You have to stop this shit," Dean muttered to himself, slamming the door to the Impala. He wasn't sure he was even going anywhere; he just needed to comfort of the car, its slightly off smell of unwashed man and fast food, its Dean-shaped groove in the seat.

He had thought he was safe, left to his self-deprecating thoughts, for a while at least. Sam knew when he was too pissed to talk, and he was pretty sure he'd given him the impression that there was to be _no_ talking about this, _ever. _

Maybe if he just left it alone for long enough it'd go away. Not his fucked up feelings, for sure, because he'd spent years trying to get rid of those and here he was, a man of 29 and still fucking in love with his little brother.

But maybe the whole stupid issue would just fade away if they didn't talk about it. That's how his dad dealt with things, and hell, Dean was already so much like the man, what did one more fucked up habit matter?

Though he was pretty sure his Dad hadn't dealt with gay incestuous fantasies. Nah, he had a perfectly normal life of hunting demons and alcoholism. Dean at least had never become as out of control as their dad, something he never wanted to be.

A sudden hard bang at the door pulled Dean out of his thoughts, and he saw red. No one smacked his baby! Until, of course, he looked out the window, ready to beat the shit out of the motherfucker, because really, he could do with a good brawl right about now, and saw Sam.

"Don't you dare fucking leave, you coward," he shouted, his face contorted with rage. It was not an expression that Dean saw very often, and to be honest, he didn't like it. Sam wasn't supposed to be the angry one. That was him, and Sam was supposed to always be pushing at him to open up about his _feelings. _

"Calm the fuck down, I'm not going anywhere," Dean replied heatedly, resignedly unlocking the doors to let Sam in. There was no escaping Sam when he wanted to talk, so he may as well let him in.

Sam sat in the passenger seat, and somewhere in the back of his mind (which was still on probation, Dean warned; he was still toying with the idea of blowing it the fuck out) he noted that that was where Sam belonged. In the seat beside him.

"We can't just not talk about this, Dean. I really couldn't care less about whether you want to, either, so shut up and listen for once," Sam spat, though his rage was mostly gone. Oh, great. There went Dean's brilliant idea. There was no _way _this was going away.

"You gonna talk or are you just gonna sit there?" Dean answered gruffly when Sam obviously expected one.

"What the hell was that back there, Dean?" Sam asked softly, and dammit, it was fucking question time. Couldn't this all just fuck off and leave him alone? He was perfectly fine jacking off to his thoughts of Sammy in peace, and now it all had to come out into the open?

"You're the one who insisted on coming with me. That was a peek into my fucked up little mind, I guess," he answered, his tone bitter and self-hating. Sam couldn't say he was surprised. Dean was just the sort of guy to bottle this up and let it destroy him.

Then again, he supposed it was the normal reaction to wanting to fuck your brother. He guessed he was the exception, but he figured if Dean wanted him, like he seemed to, and he wanted Dean, then everyone else could go fuck themselves.

"How long?" Sam asked, not bothering to explain himself. Dean knew what he meant. Dean sighed, and slumped in his seat. Sam knew this Dean well.

This was the Dean who thought he had failed, again. This was the Dean Sam had seen far too many times when they were kids and John had chewed him out for some ridiculous mistake, and it was a Dean Sam never wanted to see again.

"Why does it even matter, Sam? Why don't you just tell me I'm sick, and leave already? Let's not draw this out," he bit back, utterly defeated and still putting up a fight.

"_How long?"_

"Fuck, Sam. Forever, OK? Since you were fucking 13, and I loved you even before then. Jesus, this is ridiculous. What, you want to hear about how I had to drag myself out of the motel every single night and fuck some random chick just so I didn't touch you?" Dean shouted, snapping suddenly.

A hushed silence filled the Impala. Dean felt sick to his stomach. He might actually puke. Sam said nothing, looking ahead. Dean wondered whether he was actually seeing anything, or picturing all the nights Dean might have made a move and being revolted.

"Look, just… take the fucking car, just go. Get out of here," Dean said, so low Sam almost didn't hear it, and that was the moment he knew Dean was utterly broken. He wouldn't give up the Impala unless he was sure he was going to be either dead or worse.

Dean shifted and went to exist the car, and for a split-second, Sam panicked. It was a panic like he'd never felt before. He was going to _lose_ Dean; Dean was going to get out and leave right then. So he did the only thing he could think of.

Sam leant over and grabbed Dean's arm roughly, hard enough that he was sure it would leave little purple bruises. He smashed his lips on Dean's, putting everything he had into the kiss. He _had_ to make Dean understand.

Dean responded immediately, moaning as Sam swiped his tongue against Dean's lower lip. His hand reached up to Sam's hair, his ridiculously long hair, and entwined it there, tugging slightly. God, this was _good. _He couldn't get enough, devouring Sammy's mouth with his tongue, feverishly exploring the wet heat.

"_De_," Sam moaned against his mouth, shifting against him, and Dean felt his hardness. His cock twitched at the name; Sam hadn't called him that in years.

He supposed getting hard from a childhood nickname was bit fucked up, but honestly, Sam's tongue was in his mouth, and he couldn't give a fuck about anything right now.

He pulled away when he finally began to struggle for air, black spots dancing behind his eyes. Panting like a fucking dog, he watched Sam, who seemed to be as turned on as Dean.

"What the fuck, Sam? Don't you fucking play with me," he managed to spit out, still doubtful that this was for real. Nothing went his way. He just didn't get what he wanted. Sammy was no exception.

"Oh, for god's sake, Dean. I fucking _love_ you, don't you get it by now?" Sam cried, looking genuinely frustrated. Dean must have still looked doubtful or blank or whatever, but frankly he thought he was doing pretty well to still be fucking conscious, because Sam went on.

"I've been in love with you since I was fucking fourteen, OK? And I'm sick of denying it. And I know you are too. Please, can't you just… skip this part and love me back?" Sam asked, his voice suddenly small again, like he was a kid again asking for extra sweets, (which, of course, Dean always found a way to provide.)

Dean looked over, and dammit, Sam had pulled the fucking puppy dog eyes, and he _knew_ Dean couldn't say no to that. Manipulative bastard.

"Yeah, OK, Sammy," he replied breathlessly, and pulled Sam into another searing kiss. Honestly, he wasn't sure whether this was fucking real or not, or whether he'd be able to get over himself just like that, but right now, Sam was in his arms, and that was all he needed.

He'd never let you catch him saying that, though, because Dean Winchester? He didn't do chick-flick moments, unless they were with his Sammy.


End file.
